


resolute

by gghoulish



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, background trapper/david that i threw in for fun, this feels more like a weird character study than anything LMAOO, this is more dubious consent than it is full on non-con but that's an argument for a different time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghoulish/pseuds/gghoulish
Summary: He doesn't beg, he doesn't fuss. He will look into The Shape's void of a mask, and he's resolute. He doesn't care if he dies.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Jake Park
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	resolute

**Author's Note:**

> this was a commission for my friend, i have never read a fic for this pairing and this characterization is purely my own speculation. this contains dubious consent/non-con and violence, which i feel is typical of a dbd scenario, but fair warning to skip this if you don't like that kind of content.

As he rests against the tree that he had claimed what felt like _eons_ ago, he wiped blood from his nose. He knew all would be well before the next _hunt_ , because more often than not, they are intended to suffer their pain all over again from the beginning, like a newborn thrust into hellfire, experiencing pain freshly and new each and every time.

Some survivors are still naïve, believing that there's a way out. And others are more like Claudette; they study their surroundings and know the likelihood of it happening is low, but they hope for this to end, or for some kind of freedom. Jake's keen eye sees much of what happens, both in the camp and outside of it. Jake has come to see David torn up at times. Sometimes that spark he usually has, that drive to infuriate, to instigate, is beaten out of him--- but nobody knows _how_ . Jake has his suspicions, he sees the way he acts, when they go up against Trapper. It's like a parallel, to how he is with The Shape. Or _Michael_ , as Laurie calls him. Though he supposes, now he calls him that name as well.

It always felt like a dance. He'd see The Shape and, unlike most of his fellow survivors, he never felt particularly bothered. Besides, he didn't stay around for long, until he suddenly **did**. Within an instant, he'd be on Jake, hands at his throat, crushing his windpipe with spine-chilling ease. But Jake isn't like most of the survivors. He's more like Laurie, an outlier; he doesn't beg, he doesn't fuss. He will look into The Shape's void of a mask, and he's resolute. He doesn't care if he dies, if that knife guts him, or if he's hooked. He's been here for longer than anyone can remember; he doesn't even recall the early nights of his life here, but he knows that for as long as he can remember, it's been him, Dwight, Meg, and Claudette. Sometimes he isn't sure if he was the first here, or not. In some ways, he figures, it doesn't matter. He's a lone wolf, of sorts, and his memories of people fade easier than it does for others. He doesn't hold many people in high respect.

_Least of all himself, at this point._ It's not something he'll admit, or even dwell on very often, but he's begun to feel his mind unravel, constantly thinking of the exchanges between himself and the masked killer. Maybe that's why, not for the first, and not for the last time, he thinks back to when it all started, when suddenly things were _new_.

* * *

He'd done his best to make sure that The Shape would regret pursuing Meg, and after one-too-many pallets thrown and his flashlight burning out, he had blood dripping from his mouth and side, where not even a minute ago, he had been slashed. Hitting the cold ground of the dreary, desaturated farmland meant his nose was bashed, and his body jostled and left without breath as he looked up to the killer before him. He expected to be hooked, like all the others, but the way that hand reaches down for him, he realizes right away, that is _not_ what would be happening.

The Shape's hand is suddenly tight as iron, welded around his neck, nails biting into his flesh as he's lifted from the ground, hopelessly hovering as The Shape held him in place, knife in a position many knew well, and he'd come to know it intimately. Even as he begins to fade from consciousness, Jake doesn't feel afraid, he doesn't gasp or claw against the assault. He only thinks of how not long ago, he'd heard mutterings from Laurie Strode; as he lingered near the campfire, he'd heard her say the name of the towering shape, the one who struck terror into the hearts of seemingly all.

" _Michael_ ," he breathes, against all odds, and the grip loosens, just briefly. He looks where eyes should be, but he feels no connection, whatever is on the other side of that mask is lacking in the humanity they are used to. He knows he's been near other killers, felt a strange compassion despite their nature, but he's never felt it with Michael. There's just an inability, he figures--- he's not sad like the nurse or the spirit, and he's certainly not devoted to any cause like the plague. He has nothing behind that mask, no real motivation besides carnage. He's not sure why, but he finds himself curious of Michael. He's never said a word in the presence of this killer, let alone many survivors, so this turn of events seems to pique the interest of the masked man.

Though the grip loosens, it is no less oppressive. He feels his back ache as he was pushed into a wall. The knife did not bite into his chest, splitting skin and bone with ease, instead it sliced lower, along the waist of his pants and down to his thigh. Now this, was _new_ , something Jake had yet to partake in. But he knows of it. Because he's not naïve, and he knows more about both survivors and killers than people give him credit for. His quiet nature lends to him never being noticed. He's almost always eerily calm, but right now, his heart rabbits in his chest, blood pounding in his ears.

His throat is free, but the same hand that had nearly crushed his windpipe, was at his side, holding him up with ease. He can hear a gen pop off, the noise linked to the feeling of his pants ripped, torn down to hang awkwardly in front of himself. The dull feeling of fear is not something he ignores, but something he accepts, and as the masked face comes closer, as if calculating his every move, every lack of an expression he makes, he knows that nobody else will dare to come near them. It's at this point Jake realizes, he's not even sure who he came to this realm with. But he knows he's not leaving it, not through the gates or the hatch. He will not know that peace.

He can feel that he's being shoved, turned around, and it sinks in, what's going to happen. However, Jake is daring enough to push back, and maybe it's curiosity on Michael's end that allows him to. He sinks to his knees, a hand reaching up to allow him to curiously dip his fingers past the fabric of Michael's coveralls. It's already partially open, and it makes his job easier when he fishes around, wrapping his fingers around Michael's thick, hardening cock. Frankly, it's massive--- Jake can feel his own cock throb a little at the sight of it, which he's sure is not a sign of mental stability, at this point. He'd been driven mad long ago, so why not enjoy himself in this infernal place?

Jake does not often indulge in these sorts of carnal desires, but even if he were to, it wouldn't lend to him being more or less prepared. The Entity reverted them all back to the state they were upon entry, save for trivial things, like hair or clothes. Only with experience did they learn more skills, though the same could be said of life outside of this place. Memories were hazy, too, not always allowing a means of education. Sometimes it just felt like pure luck.

He can barely fit Michael past his bruised, bloodied lips, and the taste of sweat and skin is salty on his tongue. He normally only tastes blood, or vomit, so this is--- _different._ Maybe even a welcome change, he realizes, as he struggled to take more into his mouth. Michael doesn't grip his hair, and instead, Jake feels his hand on top of his head, his grip nearly crushing as he _forced_ Jake to take more of his cock. Perhaps a warning, _if you're going to do something, do it right_. 

It's far more erotic than it should be. More erotic than it is terrifying, at any rate, and Jake feels his cheeks flush as he dares to gaze up at the stoic man before him. He'd never had the chance to exercise his lack of a gag reflex in his prior life, but it's becoming useful, because he knows he'd otherwise be throwing up. All he hears is the wet noise of him being pulled off of Michael's cock, because even during all of _this_ , Michael doesn't make a sound. It's bizarre, in a way. Or maybe intriguing, that Michael's steady breathing never stops or fluctuates. The only way he knows he's doing this right is because Michael hasn't gutted him yet, and he's allowed to continue, flattening his tongue as he glided it up his shaft. The muscular killer is sporting a rather big hard-on by this point, but there's less intimidation, and more a strange, different feeling blooming in Jake's gut.

He can feel blood going down the back of his throat, a grim reminder of his likely broken nose, and it mingled with the equally salty taste of pre-cum. When he looks down, he can see blood smeared all over the other man, and his drool is thickened with blood as it drips from his mouth. The hand on his head slips lower, fingers curling around his throat again, and evidently Michael was done with foreplay. Jake gave a weak cough as he was turned around--- and before he can think much about it, and the wind is pushed out of him when he's forcibly bent over a window, the cold wood rubbing his stomach raw as Michael reached around to gag him on his fingers, making them wet with drool and blood. He figures that's a pretty nice courtesy for what's going on, and almost doesn't expect how skillfully and speedily Michael stretches his hole. He knows it's going to hurt either way, because he's anything but _small_ , and while Jake knows he wasn't loosened for his _own_ pleasure, Michael must have learned, at some point, that he wouldn't have as pleasurable a time if he forced himself in with no preparation. He's not often grateful for much in this realm, but he's definitely feeling that way right now--- Michael's spit-slick cock is resting against his ass, reminding him that it had been a good risk to take, offering to give him a blowjob. There wasn't going to be much else making this easier.

He expects the pain, the burn and stretch as Michael's fingers leave him and he starts to push the head of his cock in. This isn't the first time Jake's been in this position ( _albeit, it was on a bed, with lube and protection_ ), but the strange _thrill_ this gives him is a little... **_unexpected_ **. He's never been inclined to sex before, never had an interest, but the heat this fills him with, it's intoxicating.

The breath is pushed out of him as Michael thrusts, and there's nothing to hold on to; the bruising pace crushes him against the window, makes his cock press up against the cold wood. It makes him moan, the roughness, the way the hands on his hips are almost crushing him. Despite being someone with a high pain threshold, this was almost overstimulating. It was erotic, and Jake was beginning to see why other survivors craved this. He'd never been impressed with his partners in the past, if he'd ever moaned or put on a show it'd been a shallow thing, but he's beginning to wonder if his moans are going to be heard by the others.

In this world, right and wrong were unimportant standards. Nothing was normal, so he may as well enjoy this. He wasn't going to get anything better. And in this moment, he couldn't even **_think_ ** of anything better. He’s never felt so full, and he’s also never felt so _alive_ \--- not here, and not even back home. He’d never even have known he wanted this, but then again, how the fuck were you supposed to?

He can't even reach for his own dick, because he's struggling with keeping his balance, bracing himself against the frame of the window and struggling to keep his feet on the ground. During a gasp for breath, he can hear a _stutter_ of a noise behind the mask, and he makes the mistake of cocking his head towards the noise. He is punished with fingers clutching at his hair, pushing his head forward. He can hear another generator go off, and he knows the gates are ready to be powered.

If anyone has seen this exchange, they haven't interrupted. Jake doesn't blame them, and with the sinful noises being ripped from him as his head was shoved down, down, _down_ , he almost felt relieved. His body ached with how it was pressed, grasped, and bruised, and the pace only gets rougher. The fingers remain in his hair, and his back arches as he's fucked. He can feel pre-cum leaking from his cock, making him groan and pant. His scalp hurts, but the burn feels good. Something about the noise associated with the gates opening, something akin to a clock striking the hour mark, made him moan even louder.

It's cold, but he's practically drenched in sweat. He's so dizzy, and he can feel himself losing consciousness--- he only thinks of how much blood has pooled beneath them when he almost slips, but Michael just crushes him, keeps him from leaving his position. His side dully aches, reminds him that he's severely injured, but all he can focus on is the way his hips are grabbed.

The thrusts turn sharper, before he feels the other man still. His own cock is leaking cum at a slow, agonizing pace, probably thanks to the now overwhelming pain _and_ pleasure he felt. He was surprised he could even focus on the pleasure anymore; but he can't help but moan pitifully when Michael pulled out. He could feel cum already dripping down from his hole, making his sweaty, bloody skin even wetter.

Finally, the presence behind him is drawn back, and he feels himself drooping towards the ground. Before he can land in a puddle of blood and cum, there's a hand at the back of his jacket, holding it with such a ferocity that he nearly choked as he was dragged. His vision was becoming steadily blurrier by that point, and he can't keep his eyes open. It's only when he hears the faint noise of the hatch that he realizes he'd been _wrong_ , before. His body hits the ground hardly a foot from the means of escape, and it makes him gasp.

He can feel the presence of the Entity lingering. He knows he has only seconds to escape, or else he'll be impaled. It's strange, to open his eyes, seeing stars and hardly able to breathe, to see Michael above him, standing there as stoically as ever. He says nothing, doesn't even more, but his knife is lowered, and he didn't grab him again.

He doesn't thank his captor, because he feels that would spite him, if anything. Instead he crawls, barely makes it inside before he hears the Entity approach. He goes into the darkness, the void, and comes to on the other side, waking up in front of the campfire he'd come to despise. He wasn't sure if he could, or frankly, ever _would_ process what had happened, but he feels oddly... _peaceful._

If what he'd done was a guaranteed means of escape, he didn't think he minded it that much. Maybe he understood why David had the record for hatch escapes, now--- _and why he snuck off in the first place._


End file.
